


Stay

by InkInc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, F/M, New Years, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 09:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4216218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkInc/pseuds/InkInc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know why she would risk coming here. It's been 4 years, and the thing Sherlock wants the most is also what he most fears… For Irene Adler to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This story is set on the New Years eve after His Last Vow!
> 
> I've been having some HEAVY writer's block for the past month and a half, so I decided to try and write something of a "fluffy" one shot to get the muses going… So that's what this story is. I am, however, toying with the idea of making this a 3 or 4 part ficlet, with the second part kind of started already. Depends on where the inspiration goes, I suppose!
> 
> If you've read Come Attrition Come Hell, you can pretend that the night in Sherlock's room happened before this story, or not. When writing this, I mostly assumed that it didn't, but that they were intimate in Karachi and never spoke again after that.
> 
> Anyway, this is tonally different from what I usually write, I think… And I'm still getting to know these characters again, so I hope you like my attempt at jumping back on the horse! Thank you for reading. :)

**Baker Street, London**  
**New Year's Eve, 23:45**

This New Years Eve had begun like every other New Years Eve - like any other day, really... Except that Sherlock Holmes had awaken with a peculiar idea implanted in his brain. Peculiar was putting it lightly, actually... And he fought for most of the morning to ignore it.

As the day wore on, however, ignoring it became increasingly difficult.

It was difficult while he tried to focus on the Underground case that had "come across his desk" the day before... It was difficult when he sat down to examine several slides of blood samples under his microscope. It was especially difficult when the sun went down and the street outside quieted to only a dull rush of cars.

  
He couldn't ignore the idea anymore.  
  
Now, Sherlock stood in his kitchen; his hands fidgeting slightly against his sides as he watched the kettle slowly come to a boil. He had heard something once about watching water in a kettle, or a pot, or something... something about it never... doing something. Oh, who cares? What did it matter? If it had been important, he wouldn't have deleted it to begin with.  
  
And why wouldn't this water _boil_ already?  
  
Wait a minute. Did he even have any biscuits? Which was to say, had Mrs. Hudson brought any biscuits up recently? He looked around his immediate vicinity with just his eyes for a few seconds before closing them and taking a deep breath.

This was ridiculous. Completely and utterly... and he didn't know why he was putting himself through it.

Well, yes he did. 

Sherlock's eyes opened almost at the exact moment that the kettle button popped up. 

_Finally._

For the next minute or so, Sherlock moved about the small space gathering all the necessary tools one needed for the hour known as tea time. The stately white porcelain teapot came first. Back stamped with the words "Ali Miller London", and adorned with a map of the UK and some out of scale trade ships, this was the same teapot Sherlock had used when preparing tea for a guest on the only other occasion he had ever done it.

And on that occasion, like this one, he hadn't been warned of the visit... but he _had_ expected it.

He poured the hot water over the loose tealeaves at the bottom of the pot and watched the liquid go dark for a moment before replacing the lid, and then proceeded to arrange the sugar pot and the milk jug along with two matching teacups on a tray. No biscuits, unfortunately, but then his uninvited guest didn't quite strike him as the biscuit eating type anyway.

No. She was a different type all together.

Sherlock placed the tea carefully on the side table near his armchair, and turned his attention to his violin. It stood perched against its usual backdrop of books and sheet music in disarray, and it occurred to him just how long it had been since he had properly played the thing. Days if he counted idly picking at its strings while lost in thought... but weeks if he didn't. 

Approaching the instrument and running his fingers along the glossy wood for a moment, he took it in to his hands. He twiddled the bow in the air once, and then positioned the violin under his chin before touching horsehair to string and pulling out one long, sweet note.  
  
He closed his eyes.

In his head and life, Sherlock Holmes was a scientist. There was a certain way to approach everything, a protocol. A procedure. The universe had arranged everything just so, and he had found long ago that he had in himself the singular talent for being able to read the arrangement the way others read words on a page or notes on a staff. He could see the mechanics where others saw only motion, and he could see the solution when others saw only puzzle. The only chaos was in misunderstanding, and he misunderstood very little. That was just how the world presented itself to him Facts and data...

With two notable exceptions, of course, and one of them was the violin.

Just as he could appreciate the beauty in the night sky, he could appreciate the beauty in music and its place in his life; the one place where genius allowed for art, where he could create rather than deconstruct. It was through this instrument that he now played that he found he felt most... human. Where some people were said to have worn their emotions on their sleeves, he played his through his violin. It helped him to think. It helped him to vent. It helped him to grieve.

Now, it helped him to remember.

He had not played this particular piece in years, and as Big Ben chimed in midnight and a new year... He realized it had been nearly 4 years to the day.

Sherlock stilled suddenly, his heart beginning to race.

"Happy New Year." He said, and his voice was low from not having used it for the majority of the day.

"Lovely tune." Her voice said casually from behind him.

After a moment he lowered his bow and violin, and opened his eyes on to the view of Baker Street from his window. If he had ever been the type of man who was given over to delusions or flights of fancy, this would certainly have been a moment where he would have wondered if he was dreaming or hallucinating. It didn't seem real that this should be happening, but it _was_ happening.   
  
"Just in time for tea." He spoke in a level tone, his voice revealing none of the apprehension he felt, though in truth he was surprised that he was able to speak at all.  
  
"Yes, just in time." She repeated his words casually. "Were you expecting someone?"  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath, and then swallowed.  
  
"Just you." He answered as he finally turned around to face the owner of the voice that was both so familiar and so foreign to him.

Irene Adler smiled. 

It had been almost 4 years since he had last seen her, and now here she was. Dazzling and brilliant, and somehow so unchanged. Though her hair was straight, framing her face in soft layers, and the makeup on her face was much more muted than in the life he had previously known her... This was still undeniably The Woman.

The only Woman.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times in a thousand different ways, and now that she was standing in front of him, all he could manage to do was keep upright.

After all, she was his other exception.

"Of course you were." She said with equal parts awe in her tone as there was mocking, and then paused. "Happy New Year, Sherlock."

He said nothing.

"So." Irene went on pleasantly as she sat down in John's old chair and elegantly crossed her legs one over the other. "How did you know I would be here?"

Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat, attempting to match her air of easiness.

"I didn't know."

"And yet..." She gestured toward the tea service, still steaming.

Sherlock concealed his slight smirk as he replaced his violin and bow back on the stand. He would be lying to himself if he didn't admit to the vague sense of triumph at having guessed that she would come here tonight.

"If I only ever prepared for what I knew was going to happen, I would be dead by now."

Irene briefly cocked her eyebrows up as though to say, "I see your point."

"I suppose a lot of people would be dead by now."

"A lot of people _are_ dead." Sherlock said as he poured Irene a cup of tea. "Milk, sugar?"

She smiled again, but this time there was a vague look of teasing about it.

"I take my tea how I take my men."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not sure how to prepare a cup of cliche."

"Strong and bitter."

"And now I know." He said nearly under his breath, adding a teaspoon of sugar to his own tea, and then a little bit of milk though he didn't usually take it. He handed Irene her tea black.

"Thank you." She said, a glint in her eyes.

Sherlock took his seat opposite her.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

Irene sat forward.

"You tell me."

Sherlock brought his hands to his face, steepling them below his nose for a moment, before moving them to the arms of his chair.

"It's New Years."

"There have been other New Years'."

"Yes, but this is the first where I've been home and accessible. The first since--"

"Since you arose from the dead?"

"Since Karachi."

Irene took a deliberate sip of her tea at that, and then set her cup down on the small table beside her.

"I've seen you since then."  
  
"I know. You left a note." He furrowed his brow. "How very customary of you."

"You were lying incapacitated in hospital. What kind of friend would I have been if I didn't at least come and bring flowers?"

"And is that why you're here tonight?" He asked, tapping his fingers lightly against the fabric of the chair. "Because we're friends?"

"Aren't we?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"As you can see yourself... I don't have a lot of friends."

Irene glanced around.

"Oh, right." She settled comfortably in to her chair. "John Watson has a family now."

"I saw him at Christmas." He said defensively.

"Sherlock." She said in an almost pitying fashion. "You're still so much like a cornered animal around me. Will that ever change?"

"Depends. Will you?"

She laughed shortly.

"Would you want me to?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Now, now!" She laughed. "The honeymoon must really be over. You seem positively hostile tonight."

"The last time someone showed up uninvited to my flat like this, I found myself jumping off the roof of Saint Bart's a short time later." He glared pointedly. "I'm not hostile. I simply don't trust you."

"Yes, I can see that."  
  
He shifted his weight.  
  
"Why are you here?"

"To catch up, darling." She paused shortly. "Well, to catch _you_ up on _me_. I've been following your exploits quite closely - _including_ your little holiday off Saint Bart's. Dead, not dead, dying, _exiled._ " She ticked her head back and fourth as she rattled the list off. "For god's sake, you're a BBC crime drama..."

"I keep busy, I'll grant you that."

"Well, thank you. It'll be the only thing you've granted me in almost four years." She laughed shortly. "Imagine my surprise when word that the 'Hat Detective' was alive and well hit the news. What was the hashtag they used? Oh yes, I believe it was Sherlock. Lives. " She paused pointedly. "Clever."

Sherlock ground his teeth, but did not look away from her.

"My fans are an imaginative group." He said ironically, holding on to the last consonant in his sentence for just a little longer than was necessary, understanding now where this was headed, and feeling quite wary of it.

"Yes, and useful. If it weren't for them, I might still think you were dead."

 He clenched his hands around the chair arms.

  
"Forgive me for not writing you at the first available opportunity."  He started calmly. "Though I do recall something about the secrecy of your location being a condition of your safety, and furthermore that we agreed any further contact between us would be counterproductive to that end-- Oh, and also, that is putting aside the fact that I had no clue where you were."

"You tracked me all the way to Pakistan, and you expect me to believe you didn't know exactly where I was for the last four years?"

And for some reason, that made something inside of Sherlock hurt.  
  
"No, I..." He trailed off for a moment to collect himself, realizing he sounded something quite similar to regretful. "When I left you last, it was with the belief that I'd never see you again. You were safe, and you were hidden. I wasn't going to allow any route back to you, least of all through me."  
  
Irene swallowed visibly.  
  
"But you could have found me if you wanted--"  
  
" _If_ I wanted." He interrupted her impatiently. "Yes, if I had wanted to, I could have found you. And I didn't. What does that say to you?"

Irene smiled, though her eyes had distinctly glossed over.

"Well..." She said. "You certainly haven't changed."

A beat.

"How often are you in London?" He asked, changing the subject. "By my count, this would be the second time in recent memory, but something tells me that's only _my_ count."  
  
Irene forced a laugh.  
  
"I've always been able to make my way."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Why are you here? None of the conditions have changed. You must be aware that you're risking your own freedom... And for what?"

Irene reached over and picked her cup back up before taking a drink from it, and then setting it back down.  
  
"It's been ages since I've had a proper cup of tea.

"Irene..." Sherlock started almost imploringly. "Why. Are you here?"

She met his eyes completely with hers, and let out soft sound that was something like a laugh, but almost like a sob.

"Don't you know?"  
  
Sherlock stared back at her and stiffened his jaw, but said nothing. He was becoming more and more uncomfortable in his own skin - a singular phenomenon particular to his encounters with Irene Adler. There was so much to address, so much history and lapsed time to wade through, and he didn't feel he had had the tools necessary to do it.

Did he know why she was here, she'd asked. Did he _know_? No, but he hoped. Against reason and logic, he... _wanted_. 

"Do you have my camera phone?" Irene asked suddenly and then broke eye contact to look around the flat for a few seconds. By the time she looked back at Sherlock, his eyes had shifted slightly away from her - passed her.   
  
"Why would I have it?"

This time when she smiled, it was warm and genuine, and Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat as his eyes found themselves newly focused on her lips.

"There's your answer."

Sherlock looked up in to her eyes again.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You do have my phone, don't you?" She asked, almost to herself, and then: "There's a reason you kept it... And that's your answer to why I'm here."

Then, before Sherlock could process what was happening, and as though years had not passed, Irene was kneeling in front of him - her hand over his. His breath caught in his throat at the unexpected contact as he stared down in to her face that was completely stripped of pretense and veil. 

"Read me now." She nearly whispered, turning her wrist over in his hand. Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted, and she was absolutely the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He found his fingers moving over her pulse point of their own volition as he leaned slightly closer to The Woman at his feet.

"Why?"

Irene rose up on her knees, bringing her face close to Sherlock's - her gaze moving from his mouth to his eyes, and the smell of her perfume and soap almost too much to bare at this proximity.

"You said you don't trust me..." She looked down to where he held her wrist; where he could feel her pulse racing against her skin, then back up. "Tell me why I'm here."

No, he couldn't tell her. He didn't have the words; he had never had them... But he could show her.

In a swift movement, Sherlock's hand was at the base of Irene's head, buried in her hair as he pulled her to him with his free arm - his lips finding hers in a moment that was almost pure relief.  
  
But then she pulled away.  
  
"You know I can't stay." She said breathlessly, a note of warning in her voice.  
  
"Yes you can." He responded before pressing his mouth to hers once again.

A moment later, Sherlock was standing to his feet, bringing The Woman with him and holding her against his body as his lips and tongue slid against hers in a kiss that was becoming more desperate with each passing second.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? The reason he couldn't tell her what he felt, or that he had awaken this morning with the vague notion that she should stop by on the first New Year's Eve that would have been possible for them to be together, a vague notion that had evolved to be a frantic hope. The reason he found himself now holding on to her for dear life as though she were sinking beneath wave after crashing wave...  
  
It was because she _was_.  
  
He couldn't hold on to her tightly enough. She was always going to slip through his fingers. She wasn't safe, and she was risking everything to be here tonight - just as she'd risked everything just to bring him a note and a flower. He'd tried to protect her by forgetting her, but in the end forgetting her had been impossible, and leaving her in the dark had ultimately forced her out of it...

And the amount of joy he now felt as her hands roamed his body was agony.

And that was when the neighbors started to sing...  
  
_Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?  
_  
Sherlock moved his mouth to Irene's neck and she gasped in to the air.  
  
_Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne?_  
  
Irene started pulling at the lapels of Sherlock's suit jacket, pulling him out of the parlor and in to the corridor...

_For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne..._

She pulled him to his bedroom door that he followed her through with his whole heart and body and mind, leaving the cold of winter in the fireless parlor, and the dark of night in the corridor as he closed the door behind them.

Even though it was impossible, she was here. And even though it was impossible, he was going to fight to keep it that way.

_And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne._

_____ 

 

 


	2. Here and There

**Stay, Part 2**

**Here and There**

**...**

 

Sherlock lay with his eyes turned up but focused at nothing in particular, his lids heavy. He knew that he needed to sleep, that he didn't function well without it... But he couldn't find it in himself to allow it to overcome him. There was a strange sense of warmth and contentment, in amounts he had never experienced, that radiated outwardly from his chest down to his body and limbs. He felt... happy. Something that he could not recall feeling in this exact way before, or if he had it had not been for any real length of time.

But even so, there was still something else needling at him from the very back of his mind. It was the reason he couldn't let himself fall asleep... He found that he was actually _afraid_ that if he closed his eyes that The Woman curled at his side with her head on his shoulder would disappear.

"I've missed you, Sherlock."  She said quietly.

His chest ached at the sound. He had missed her, too, he now realized. Of course he had missed her. He wanted to say it back, but the sentiment was too hard to express in words even now as their naked limbs tangled together beneath the blanket.

"Where have you been?" He asked instead, careful to match her volume.  
  
"Here and there." She responded teasingly, but then: "... Mostly there."

Sherlock clenched his eyes closed for a moment at the implication, that being "there" meant she had not been exactly _here,_ either in London or in his arms. He knew his part in it, and there would always be a bit of him that regretted what he had done to her - even if he could not have done anything differently.

"Have you been... safe?" He paused. "Have you been well?"  
  
She seemed to curl in even closer to him at that, pressing her forehead to the crook of his neck... And the warmth of contentment that had been tingling through his cooling body reignited in to flames that licked painfully at his heart.  
  
"It's been interesting." She started ambiguously, though he didn't get the sense that she was upset or feeling sorry for herself. "Sometimes I'm a bit more one than the other, but..." She laughed at that, a short puff of air that sounded more like a "hm" as she expelled it. "Since when have either of us wanted safe and well at the same time?"  
  
Sherlock swallowed.  
  
"I want it for you."  
  
"And yet, you've refrained from locating me for 4 years."

Sherlock stiffened a bit at that.

"It was precisely _because_ I wanted you safe and well that I--"  
  
"That you what? Tried to forget about me completely?"  
  
Sherlock bit down for a moment.  
  
"Yes." He answered truthfully, but then to her seeming surprise, he turned his body so that she was still resting her head on his arm, but he was facing her now - his forehead furrowed and his eyes connecting to hers through the soft darkness.  "It should be glaringly obvious at this point that I wasn't exactly successful to that end."

The Woman smiled, just the barest hint of mischief registering in the corners of her mouth as she lifted her hand to press against his chest, and he couldn't keep his heart from racing at the contact. 

"I must admit that you did make it pretty... _obvious_."

Sherlock took in a deep breath, the memory of the last hour coming to the forefront of his mind - the feel of her heated skin underneath his fingertips, the way she gasped and called out his name, the way she had clung to him. The intensity of their finally coming together after years of being a part. He'd kissed every part of her that his mouth could reach. He'd held her hands even while holding her down. He'd whispered things in the dark that may have made him blush now if he were prone to bouts of embarrassment. 

He couldn't imagine how it could have been clearer that he had not forgot her.

His free hand came up of its own accord and slowly began brushing its way up and down Irene's exposed arm for a few moments before Sherlock realized what he was doing. He curled his fingers in to his palm and rested his arm on his side.

Odd, he thought, what he found too intimate. Even though he was verging on willing to rip his heart out of his chest and offer it as a sacrifice at her feet... He still couldn't quite bring himself to let his whole guard down. There was a part of him that wanted to - that was ready to... But that voice in the back of his head was still there.

_She can't stay..._

_You can't trust her..._

"Where were you?" She nearly whispered, visibly shaken at the subtle interaction that had just taken place.

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together in silent inquiry.

"You were dead for two years." She qualified.

The lines in Sherlock's face smoothed in realization, and he took in a deep breath.

"Here and there." He responded pointedly.

For two years time had lost meaning. There had been no day and no night. He moved when he had to move. He slept when there was time to sleep. He had become part of a different world, a world of ghosts and whispers. By the time he'd made it back to London, "two years" didn't seem to describe to him the length of time he had been gone... Because, in truth, it had felt like he had lived a whole life while he was away - and it had been the kind of life that he had always thought he was suited for. A life of solitary "otherness" in a world where there were no friends or bloggers, and where he was consumed constantly by his work. 

... And yet somewhere along the line he had realized that he was not suited for that kind of life at all. He was forced during that time away to come to terms with the idea that he was much more human than he had previously wanted to believe. Or rather, than he had previously been _led_ to believe. He had missed Molly's voice, and Mrs. Hudson's tea, and John's utter acceptance of him. He had missed his friends and his life; he had missed London.

And though he had little hope of ever seeing her again, he had missed _Her_.

"Were you well?" She asked.

Sherlock laughed shortly.  
  
"No." Was his laconic answer.

"Safe?"

He was silent for a moment before answering, holding The Woman's gaze as he thought.

"It's... kind of a relative term, don't you think?"

The Woman laughed a little.

"Do you feel safe now?"

No, he didn't.

"Safe isn't the word I would use, no."

Irene dropped her gaze for a moment.

"You still don't trust me..." She said, and then met his eyes again.

No... He didn't.

He said nothing.  
  
"You should sleep." The Woman said on a feigned yawn after a few moments of silence.

"I'm not tired." He protested.

He couldn't sleep. There was now an unpleasant feeling pooling in his stomach, which was fast turning to certainty that The Woman would not be here when he woke up. He tried to convince himself that it was only paranoia, but he knew how his brain worked and how it collected and sorted data. He came to conclusions, and they were usually right. If something was telling him that she would be gone come morning, it was probably because she would be.

She smiled softly.

"You're exhausted."

There was a long immeasurable moment that Sherlock stared in to Irene's eyes, searching for some reassurance. Searching for anything that would allay his fears so that he wouldn't have to voice them aloud.

Ultimately, he did not find what he was looking for.

"Tell me you won't leave." He said finally, giving in. There was no other way to say it, no other way to ask. He needed to know that she would be here, at least, until he woke up. He just wanted - needed - one night with her. In the morning he'd have his wakeful mind, and the events of this night would be just distant enough that he would be able to think clearly again. He'd either be able to let her go, or work out a way so that he wouldn't have to. If she would just stay with him until the sun came up...

"... What?" Irene asked, startled.

He didn't want to repeat it. Asking the first time had been hard enough... but the words had been said, and he had meant them.

"Tell me that you won't disappear before I wake up."

A beat.

"... I won't."

His arms tightened instinctively around her, the arm he had carefully discarded at his side now draped across her waist.

"I just need..." He paused; not knowing how to communicate the depth of despair the thought of waking up without her caused him. He didn't have the words because he had never needed them. "I'm not certain how I would..."

 _Bear it_ , his mind finished, though he didn't speak the words.

He could hear The Woman swallow, and when she spoke her voice was a quiet rasp as though she were holding back tears.

"I'll be here."

 

...

 

Sherlock woke with a start in a blind panic, his breathing labored and his heart racing. Whatever he had been dreaming, whatever had ripped him so jarringly out of sleep had already begun to dissipate and drift away to the place in his mind where he would never be able to recall it again... But the feeling of fear remained.  
  
The Woman was gone.

He sat up suddenly.

"Irene?" He asked, and then looked to the clock on his bedside table. He'd been asleep for almost 3 hours, which was more than enough time for Irene Adler to have put enough distance between he and her that would have permanently separated them if she had been determined to do so. She could have been in a hotel across the city, or on a train out of the country... but either way it amounted to the same thing.

She had left him.

Sherlock ripped his blanket off of him and threw his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his thighs and running his pressed together hands against his lips and chin almost as though he were preparing to pray.

He closed his eyes and cursed himself silently for having been so stupid and sentimental. He had known that she wouldn't stay - he'd seen it in her eyes, yet he had convinced himself nonetheless. He'd set himself up for an even bigger fall than the plummet from Saint Bart's had been, and now there was nothing in this world that could stop him from hitting the ground with full force.

He growled angrily as his hand connected to the offending clock at his side, sending it flying against the wall in a loud crash, standing to his feet in almost the same moment.

He could fight this. He was better than this. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he didn't have to feel this pain.

 _You always feel it, Sherlock_... Moriarty whispered to him from nowhere at all.

"Shut up." Sherlock spat, walking to the window overlooking the garden.

He had been doing just fine without her. She was just a person - just another ordinary person in a world full of ordinary people. She'd drifted in and out of his life for a time, and now she was gone again, and nothing was different. The morning would come, and he would shower and dress, and he'd look for a case. The first case of the New Year. A nice, interesting, murder to calm his nerves.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut as a wave was approaching the internal dam he'd built in himself long ago. He had to hold it back. He wasn't prepared or willing to feel whatever was trying to break through.

But it didn't matter. He stood alone in a wide and empty corridor in his mind palace... And the wave was coming.

Irene Adler was gone, and with her all the air in the world.

Sherlock slumped, his forehead against his forearm that held his weight on the wall near the window.

What he felt now was the purest most absolute agony he'd ever felt in his life. It was breathtaking and overwhelming, and the sensation of drowning was so visceral that he didn't know if he'd make it alive to the next moment.

But then the light came on.

"Sherlock?" An uncertain voice asked from behind him, from above him, from outside him, echoing in the void.  
  
Sherlock's heart stopped, and his expression contorted in confusion as he turned slowly around to face the owner of the voice.

Irene Adler stood in the doorway of the room wrapped in his blue dressing gown, a look of concern and bewilderment on her face as she looked on at him - a glass of water in her hand.

Time stopped.

Sherlock had heard that phrase before and had given it the contemptuous semi eye roll that he'd always thought something as inane as that deserved... But he couldn't describe this moment any differently. Time simply... stopped.

And then it started again, and his heart started beating, and the air came back to him as hard as though he'd been thrown against something - and he could _breathe_ again.

Irene Adler couldn't have known it, but this was the moment that Sherlock Holmes would look back on for the rest of his life as the moment he'd let her become his world.

He was across the room in two long strides and his mouth was on hers as he forcefully pushed her against the doorframe. The sound of shattering glass filled his ears as her hands grasped his hair, pulling him tightly to her. She called his name out in a choked moan as he jerked her thigh up around his waist. He wanted her badly, physically _needed_ her. His whole body cried out for her in ways he'd never known or felt, and perhaps it was because he had not been prepared to lose her. He had not been prepared to let her go. Not this time.

"Do you want me?" He demanded even as he pressed her against the wall.

"Yes," She shuddered. "Sherlock..."  
  
"Do you need me?" He asked, not knowing where the words were coming from, just knowing that he needed to say them as much as he needed her in this moment. She continued to meet his eyes, but a nod was her only response.

Sherlock's heart pounded as the next words formed on his lips, and he felt dizzy with heartache and urgency.

"Do you love me?"

Irene stilled suddenly against him, seeming to be startled at the question. There was so much in her eyes... So much beauty and hurt and years of wasted time. So much that he couldn't read or understand, and it was only moments after she had answered his question that he realized what he had really asked her...

And what's more, that she had said yes.

He knew now that this woman, The Woman Who Loved Him, would consume him whole if he let her - that the fire in her eyes and touch would lick away at him until there was nothing left but a man burned from the inside out... But he didn't care. It didn't matter. Because now he knew what all these years had meant - all the agony and uncertainty, all the wanting and hoping, even the denial and spite. He understood it all now for what it was, and what it had always been.

Because, of course, he loved her, too… And there was no going back now.

 

 


End file.
